Gilda had got unsteadily to her feet.
“Get Whitey here,” O’Brien said to her, without taking his eyes off Adams. “Speedwell 56778. Tell him to bring four of the mob with him, and to step on it.”
She crossed to the telephone.
“I wouldn’t do it,” Adams said softly. “It won’t get you anywhere.”
“Won’t it? Let me explain what’s going to happen,” O’Brien said, his eyes gleaming. “You and Holland are going to get knocked off. The night clerk is also going to get knocked off. The boys will walk those two stiffs out of here and plant them somewhere safe. You will be found in the lobby downstairs, shot by Holland’s gun. He’ll be found on the stairs, shot by your gun. The clerk got shot accidentally, getting in the way. That’ll take care of it, won’t it?”
“It could do,” Adams said.
“It will. Carson’s killing will be blamed on Holland. That’s what I call organizing, Adams,” O’Brien said, showing his teeth in a fixed grin.
Gilda was shaking so badly she couldn’t hold the receiver.
“I can’t do it, Sean,” she moaned.
“Leave it!” he said sharply. “I’ll handle it. Go into your bedroom. Don’t worry, kid. You’re in the clear.”